


Their Budapest Assignment

by AcidArrow



Series: Clintasha Week 2016 [4]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Budapest, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, F/M, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mission Related, Natasha Romanov-centric, Pre-Avengers (2012), Protective Natasha Romanov, Trapped, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidArrow/pseuds/AcidArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple undercover mission gone heinously wrong. Two highly-trained agents, trapped beneath hot, heavy rubble and waiting for their rescue extraction. Will it arrive in time...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Budapest Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> MY version of what happened in Budapest. For Day #4 of Clintasha Week 2016: Budapest.  
> If I break your heart, I've done my job! ;D

“Clint…?  _ Clint? _ ”

Every time she inhaled, in order to grant herself enough air to call out, the inside of her mouth was coated in a thick layer of ash and dust. She felt like she was breathing in the entire building that had crumbled around them not minutes ago, leaving both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents trapped in the hot, heavy rubble along with both their friends, and their foes. Whoever had been unlucky enough to be on the ground floor of the building when the bombs had gone off above.

“ _ Clint!? _ ” she screamed again, her voice hoarse from the dust. Pure desperation was overcoming her. The darkness was all around -- smothering her, hindering her, holding her back from locating her partner of four years. She had no idea how large the space she was trapped within was, or how far in each direction she could move. Her entire body was shrieking at her in pain, and even without a doctor she could immediately tell that her left leg was broken, somewhere below the knee. She’d tried to fall smartly, but in the split seconds she had before the entire weight and mass of the building had come down on top of them, all she had managed to do was wrestle a stunned Agent Barton beneath what she presumed was a support beam, and take up a defensive position.

Which meant he had to be around here…  _ somewhere _ . Somewhere  _ close _ .

There were large shards of broken glass beneath her hand, which she didn’t realize until she lifted it to start crawling forward and was answered with a sharp stab of pain. In the darkness, she could only hope that the wound wasn’t too deep, and that she wasn’t losing too much blood. Using her forearm and elbow to keep her hand elevated above her heart, she slunk forward along what had once been carpeted floor, through dunes of dust and around blind corners created by the rubble, determined to find her partner.

There was a sobbing to her right. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Clint…?” The fingers of her good hand felt their way sightlessly along the debris to where it was coming from, falling upon a wet, bearded face that most definitely did not belong to her partner. The man didn’t even respond, other than to keep crying to himself. He was probably deep in shock by now… or in too much pain to even register what was happening. 

Natasha’s fingers explored downward, to his uniform. Her hand fell upon a crest on the closest shoulder that she recognized not as S.H.I.E.L.D., but as Hydra. Anyone who thought the Black Widow merciless on the field was instantly proven wrong as her hand returned to his face to clasp his nose and mouth tightly, cutting off his oxygen supply.

A quick and simple death would be easier than laying here to die in pain. 

It was only seconds after the Hydra agent’s body had gone still that she had a loud, steady scraping noise behind her, and then coughing. And, after that, a sound that lifted her spirits from the gutter, despite their bleak and horrific predicament.

“Na… Nat…?”

The sound of her partner’s  _ voice _ .

“Птица!” Without much care or regard for her own injuries, Natasha was dragging her aching body over toward him without sparing a single second. She could see light… somewhere, flickering around a corner, causing shadows to dance and twist eerily on a large slab of stonework peppered with offshoots of rebar, lying at an angle against what had once been a business’ working countertop. 

The light was flame, and the source was the brushed violet zippo she had purchased him on this very trip to replace the old Bic he had lost.

“Nat…!” 

As the glow of the fire warmed the small rubble pocket they were trapped within, Natasha was able to see fairly clearly the current state her fellow agent was in. She didn’t like what she saw. Both of Clint’s legs were trapped beneath a large wedge of concrete, though the support beam she had forced him beneath was holding up the majority of the debris, saving him from being crushed from the waist up and protecting his head and vital organs.

Or, at least… she hoped. She did her best not to widen her eyes in horror as they fell upon the piece of rebar that had impaled the side of his abdomen, which was jutting out of his uniform several inches, bloody and sharp and ominous in the tiny little light. 

“… I look like shit, don’t I?”

There was more than a spark of life in his blue eyes, and Natasha was next to him in a heartbeat, curling up next to him in the wreckage so that she could cradle his head in her arms. He coughed again several times, and she put a firm hand on his chest to steady him. 

“Not moving is your top priority right now,” she told him in a quiet voice, drawing back far enough that she could see his face. He was smothered in a thick layer of dust, his features barely recognizable beneath it all. The line of his nose, the sharp curve of his jaw, the creases in his skin that made him look older than he was. Somewhere, beneath the dirt, he was bleeding.

“Oh, hey, cool, I’m good at bein’ lazy…” His hoarse, strained attempts at humour weren’t lost on her, though her lips wouldn’t curve up at all, not even a fraction. She had seen Clint Barton receive many injuries before, each one just as brutal and painful as the last. But injuries like these, she had never seen anyone come back from… not even Clint.

“Clint… I’m sorry.”

“Wha--? Why?”

The light danced across his face, across hers, and she turned her eyes away. “Taking cover in the building was my bright idea.”

“Hey, so was this, right?” Clint raised his free hand with a grunt of effort and anguish, patting the steel support beam that was protecting his head from harm. “Good ol’ beam. Thank you, beam.”

“Clint --”

“Y’know what I miss? Pancakes. I could eat, like… an entire stack right now…”

Natasha’s eyes were soaked in worry, especially as Clint’s eyes began to wander across the ceiling of unstable debris. He was going into shock. “Clint,” she said firmly, and as the arm with the lighter fell, she caught it by the wrist and removed the flame from his hand.

“Here, I’m gonna hold that. You hold this, okay?” She took his hand and placed it solidly on his upper arm; now that the light had shifted, she could see blood seeping heavily through the dust and could only assume it was the site of a wound. A nasty one.

“Shit, here. More pressure.” Natasha’s hand held his down firmly, rigidly, watching the thick, dusty fluid pooling up below the seal.  _ Goddammit. _ She wasn’t going to let him bleed to death. Not here, not now. Clint Barton was  _ not  _ going to die today.

“Clint. Can you still hear me?” Natasha shook him a little to get his attention, and his wandering eyes refocused on hers. His pupils were the wrong size, and his breathing was slowing down. “Clint, where’s your quiver? Do you know where your quiver is?”

Clint’s brown frowned beneath the dirt. “Uh… uh, I think it’s… I had it when we came in here…”

Natasha cursed in beneath her breath and pawed around him on the floor with the hand that wasn’t holding up the zippo. Ideally, she would’ve cut the light and searched with both, but she was genuinely terrified that without the light to focus on Clint might just slip into unconsciousness. And she needed him awake right now.

“Дерьмо _ … _ !” 

“Language,” muttered Clint flatly, and Natasha chuckled a bit, mostly that he had been conscious enough to make the joke. It was hard not to smile at the first bit of good news she’d had since this small, simple, undercover assignment had spun wildly out of control thanks to a double-agent, leaving both agents running for their lives through the streets of Budapest, firing back on non-stop assault from all sides.

“Are you still putting pressure on that?” she asked, already working her combat knife free from its home on the inside of her right boot. 

“Yep,” came the gruff response. “S’pretty bad, Nat…”

“I know, птица. Don’t let go.”

Natasha was holding the knife down low, running the tiny flame along the tip of the blade to heat it. Clint’s eyes dropped hazily and he fought to focus on what he was doing. His sober silence told her that he understood what was about to happen, and why it was necessary. He was bleeding too much, too fast, and they could be here hours… 

“Do you have --”

“My glove. You’re gonna need to do it.”

Natasha nodded and paused in heating the knife to peel his glove off of the hand that wasn’t currently putting pressure on the wound. She folded it quickly against her thigh one-handed, as if she weren’t even holding the knife, and carefully placed it between his teeth. He accepted it gratefully and closed his eyes, biting down a little to test the give of the wedge of leather, and Natasha went back to heating and sterilizing the knife.

“This is gonna hurt, Barton.”

“Hhhh, ih mmm mm mmm muhuh,” the younger agent responded. Natasha had listened to him talk with his mouth full enough to recognize it as,  _ hey, this isn’t my first rodeo _ , or something along those lines. She shook her head; always a trooper.

“Okay, Clint… let go.”

She applied the hot metal to his deep wound in short bursts, occasionally pausing to reheat the metal as quickly as she could in between, as well as check on the bleeding. The word ‘trooper’ was perhaps an understatement; he screamed and howled into his makeshift gag in a bloodcurdling display of just how much raw, resonant vocal power his chest had, but even as tears streamed down his face, dousing the dust, his arm was rigid and stiff and still enough for Natasha to work effectively. After several minutes, though it felt considerably longer, the wound was cauterized and Natasha was fishing about his waistline for the flask of strong alcohol she knew he always kept on his person.

Infection was the next concern with this wound, and while vodka wasn’t the best cleansing agent, her options were somewhat limited.

“Keep biting down, птица,” she warned him as she unscrewed the flask, and began to douse the wound carefully. She didn’t want to waste any. When she was done, she watched his head slump back, breathing hard and trembling violently. She took the glove from his mouth and then gently lifted his uninjured arm into her lap so that she could remove the bloodied, wet glove. 

“When you’re feeling ready, Clint, I need you to tell me if anything else but your side hurts.”

“My… my side’s in… really bad… shape… huh?” he panted out, his voice gravelly and weak. Natasha gave him an expression of sympathy, and offered him the flask. 

“Here. You’ve earned this, soldier.”

She tipped some of the vodka into his mouth and he coughed a little, but appeared grateful. Natasha took a small swig for herself to ease her nerves. She wanted to deal with his torso wound, but she knew that leaving the piece of rebar inside of him was far healthier right now than taking it out. At least… as long as rescue came within the hour. Otherwise…

“I need to save the gas in this lighter, Clint,” she said carefully, not knowing how he might react. She could treat the wound for now with some alcohol, clean it out… but if they were here too long, she would need to remove it and cauterize both the entry and exit wounds.  _ Worst. Case. Scenario. _ “So, if I keep talking to you --”

“No! Don’t.”

“Птица…?”

“Don’t… don’t put it out.” Clint’s greyish eyes slid over to her, suddenly filled with a strange fear. “Please.”

Natasha felt her heart rip itself in two, and she ignored her broken shin and slid closer so that her shoulder was against him, spooning into his side. “Clint, we need to save the gas in case I need to cauterize your other wound. We also don’t know how much oxygen we have down here.”

“Nat, I…” A chill passed through her as she realized his eyes were sparkling with fresh tears, and his free, bloody hands gripped her arm with surprising strength given the condition he was in.

“I… I don’t wanna die in the dark…”

Natasha froze for just a few moments at the delicate, terrified tone to his voice, before craning her neck to kiss his jawline tenderly.

“ Маленькая птица.” Her cheek pressed against his, and she gently stroked the hand that was clenching her forearm as tight as a vise. “You are not going to die down here. I promise you that, Clint… I am not going to let you die. And you know I never break a promise.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. would extract them. Natasha  _ knew _ they would. Coulson had never let her down in the past, and what’s more, would never dream of letting  _ Clint  _ down.

Hawkeye and the Black Widow would  _ not _ die in Budapest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come rumble the Tumble with me! :D  
> [~acidarrowguy](http://acidarrowguy.tumblr.com)


End file.
